


Checkmate

by skish254



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alfred has Hemophilia, Betrayal, Captive!Alfred, Does not follow the exact plot of the show, F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, Ivar (Vikings) is a Little Shit, M/M, Mind Games, Multi, Possessive Ivar (Vikings), Religion, Revenge, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-09-30 11:51:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20446712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skish254/pseuds/skish254
Summary: And here, at dusk, in the eye of the storm, death comes to him in the form of a man.Ivar.





	1. King

**Author's Note:**

> This story does not follow the same order as the TV show, and there are lots of historical inaccurasies.

Alfred.

It is a small name. As small as he, himself. The word short and quick against the tongue, spoken as though his name was nothing but another whisper in the wind. 

His heart thundered, the joints of his knees wavering and wobbling, threatening to send him sprawling to the floor as he held the sceptre in his right hand. The crown lay heavy over his head, the weight unbearable as he began to stand. 

He turned, hunched over his middle. The pain in his stomach began to blossom and spread. It throbbed with every step he took towards his throne. His feet are uneasy, strange.... _ uncomfortable. _

The throne was cold under his hands, and far too big for his liking. He feels open, vulnerable to these judgemental eyes watching and calculating his every move. His clothes, although loose, felt heavy on his shoulders, and he struggled to sit up straight, the aching sending jolts up towards his ribs and down towards his gut.

He turns to look at his mother, who in turn smiles sternly, pinching his arms slightly to get him looking straight.

And Alfred turns towards the eyes before him. The hall was crowded from the wealthiest to the most influential of nobles with his most faithful soldiers lined against every corner and exit.

It’s suffocating. 

But Alfred breathes nonetheless. A miracle, really. He remembers the story of Christ walking across the seas, but he is underneath it. Submerged within the waters, lost in the murky _ blue _ depths. And he  _ breathes. _

Breathed through the unbreathable. After all, it is his duty.

And for a moment, he feels a twisted sense of power. He is different without doubt, often misunderstood. Pained, but curious. Fragile, breakable as glass, but capable of cutting all those that dare choose to walk over him.

_ “Long live the King!” _ the crowd repeats in a tranced mantra, and Alfred feels sick. His stomach churns, eyes rolling to the back of his head the slightest, swallowing down the bile that threatened to pour.

_ “N-no,” _ he stutters, pushing himself up from the metal throne. _ “Long live Wessex.” _

≈

Upon the ruins of Exeter, five sons stand among a bloodied and power-hungry army of beasts. Warriors. Brothers yet their own worst enemy. Floki had taught him that. After all, one must always think the worst of their kin. It avoids disappointment.

And as Ivar watches his four brothers from their side, he wonders which will be the first. None the matter, he concludes, grinning up at the thundering sky and the bloodied waters running down from his face quenching the soil below. His body burns with the wrath, the gods blessed down upon him and heart thunders along with his army’s sheers.

They hold the head of the fallen Christian head up towards the gods above. Here they offer the christian king as sacrifice. A small gift. His token of gesture.  _ “To Odin,” _ he mumbled, voice weak, but body overwhelmed with power. 

“TO ODIN!” his brothers repeat, followed by the crowd’s screams of victory.

Ivar watches the crowd cheer amongst themselves for a few moments, before returning to his camp. His camp was high, located up on the hill, like an eagle’s nest were up on his tree. But he does not fly, nor does he walk up this hill. He crawls. Swooping down to his lowest in an attempt to grab power. 

This battle was simply a taste of victory. There was more to come. He was sure of it. They defeated their king hours ago, yet no word of surrender. He stares down at their army, now with an added one hundred horses along with weapons with metal stronger than ones he’d ever held before.

He waits...and waits, waiting for the fat, short man in his robes to come marching on his horse, surrounded by the weak christian soldiers...but none comes.  _ Strange. _

“Ivar!” 

He turns to his grinning grinning brother, chin high with pride as he held two cups of ale.  _ “Ubbe.” _

Ubbe joins his on his spot on the ground, handing Ivar his glass, as they look down upon the army together. There is a moment of silence, peace. However it is short-lived, and dies as quickly as it came. A whisper in the wind.

“Why are you not feasting amongst us, brother? We have won, our army greater than the greatest. What is there to fear?”

Ivar laughs, eyes lidded and the grin curled up against his lips. “We have not won. Not yet. This was simply a  _ taste _ of victory, and sadly quite disappointing.” He frowns mockingly. Not towards his brother, despite his inability to think, but towards his enemies. 

“We have killed their king, slaughtered their entire army. What more do we have to fear?” 

He rolls his eyes. “Does a king not have sons? There will be a new king, most likely looking for peace after his father's death.”

“You don’t sound entirely too pleased,” Ubbe muses. 

“ _ Of course _ I’m not! I do not want this battle to be over. Not without a fight. I have no wish for peace. Look at what happened to our father when that happened. And look at what Odin had given us!” He turns towards his brother, spreading his arms out to the army after. “We have the greatest army ever assembled!”

“And they will be our instruments.” 

“Instruments for wrath,  _ for our father. _ ” The words are poisoned. With hate, the thirst for blood and the screams of the christians that took their father away from them. All in the name of a false god.  _ “For Odin.” _

≈

When the raids first began, to say Ivar was surprised was an understatement. Three, sometimes four men would come under the cover of the night and set fire to their food. Or slice the throat of one of their men, who wouldn’t be found until the following morning. In all, it was tiresome and awfully cowardly.

He’s angry. Of course he’s angry. His army is starving, men dying without as much of a fight. This new King was far from foolish. 

“Ivar! We have lost half of our food supply, and thirty of our men. Why are we not attacking them?!”

Ivar groans, ignoring Hvitserk’s complaints. “We tried! If you haven’t noticed, they retreated.”

“And why are we not pursuing them?! Cowards, a whole lot of them.”

Ivar rolled his eyes to his side. “He may  _ look _ like an idiot, may  _ sound _ like an idiot, but don’t let that fool you!  _ No. _ He really is an idiot!,” Ivar mutters under his breath, growling slightly.

“I heard that.”

“That was the point. Now listen,  _ fool _ . We venture too far after them, and they’ll burn all our ships. We’d be trapped. You understand? Their king knows what he is doing. They cannot beat us in battle, so they are trying to do everything they can to weaken our defences.”

“And what do you propose we do? At this rate we will starve to death.” Ubbe asks, calmer than Hvitserk, but just as stupid. “We should establish a settlement, an area to farm, to grow food.

“I don’t want to disband the army. My suggestion is that we go north, to where we will defeat Aelle. We should establish a permanent camp, as  _ you _ say” Ivar pauses for a moment, looking at the look of dismay on his brother’s face, before continuing, “but...near the coast! From where we can raid wherever we want.”

He’s careful not to choose the wrong words, or aggregate any of his two brothers, who’s pride remained above their sense to think intellectually. 

“No, It will look as though we are retreating.”

“You are not listening Ubbe. It is merely tactical. I ha–we.. _ we _ have to have a strong hold. If we go north, we are closer to our own land, and shipping routes. We can build an  _ impregnable _ fort.”

That peaks Hvitserk’s interest. “Where?”

“I’ve heard of a town called York. It is built not far from the sea, and I think we should take it.” Ivar speaks slowly, calm, and collected. Unlike the times he would speak to Sigurd. “Surely,  _ you understand _ that if we settle in the middle of the country, we are surrounded by enemies.”

Ivar knows Ubbe wants to say no, wants to deny his suggestions, but Ivar knows his brother better than he knows himself.

_ “...near our home,” _ he finishes, delivering the final blow.

There were no need for more words. 

**≈**

Alfred was weak in body, but not in mind. That Athelred knew. His mother knew. His grandfather, step-father...they saw it. Somehow. 

Maybe it was when his mother had gifted him the book, being the only one capable of memorizing it. But it was no easy feat, no matter how much his mother boasted to him. How much she praised him. Only he knew he stayed all night and day ready and reciting the same passage over and over and over again. Making a fool of himself when he did not know what the letters said, or how the words were spoken. 

Remembered seeing the words as simple incomprehensible scribbles. Took him hours upon hours to memorize all the characters, the words coming soon after.

He does not want to be king, he wants to go back to being the brother who struggled to read and write. Enjoys playing war with a game of chess rather than on the battlefield. 

He’s sitting on his throne when the nobles walk in, stomach uneasy, but posture strong and sturdy. He knows the council of nobles before him sees him weak. Unfit to be king. Precisely why they are a danger.

To him and to Wessex.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Lord Cyneheard commands, and Alfred can’t help but think that this lord sounded more of a king than he. Maybe he should learn to speak assertively. For now, Alfred does as he has always done.

“Meaning of what?” he asks, cocking his head off to the side, acting confused.

“You have been acting out without any consultation or advice. This plan is madness! Sending raids?  _ Hiding _ from the enemy? You will make a mockery of Wessex’s honour!” The bishop speaks, his thick robes swaying violently as he moves his arms up in a show of outrage.

“Tell me, what good is a bishop who knows not of humility. Pride?  _ Honor? _ Why are you fighting over such trivial matters, when your kingdom is  _ crying _ for help. And when Wessex needs me, I know not of honor, or pride. I know humility. And from humility, at my  _ very lowest, _ there is only one way to go.” He’s read the works of his god over and over and over again. Now it seemed they were engraved with his very soul. He’s at his lowest, at the bottom of it all, amongst the water. After all, all water makes its way to the lowest points, and it drags Alfred along with it. Though he supposed he did not mind. Now, he can’t fall any lower, so there is only one direction to go.  _ “I rise.” _

The bishop stutters, and Alfred finds himself continuing. “We have not lost a single man in these raids, and our enemies have lost twenty. We have burned half their food supply, send horses running. It is not about honor, but using all means to protect our people and men. I will not send my men to fight to their death in a futile war for your so called honor. I wish to drive the pagans back.”

“And if they do not?”

Alfred pauses for a moment. “They will, however, the won’t leave England. Not yet. They will leave Exeter and head north. Towards York, most likely.”

“Most likely?!” 

They sound unnerved, untrusting, and Alfred finds he cannot do much of that now, expect continue what he is doing. “I am gambling of course, but I have no doubt they will wish to be closer to their homeland. Not surrounded by enemies. It is in their best interest to take over Northumbria first.” Alfred knew he was not wrong. If the Pagans chose to take over Wessex first, they would face heavy casualties and defeating King Aelle’s army after that would be near impossible. It would be in their best interest to take over Northumbria first, close to their homeland, and if need be the have reinforcements.

Murmuring broke out in the hall, and despite his annoyance, Alfred found he didn't have the energy to command them quiet. His stomach aches, the food he ate not a little while ago, threatening to come back out where it came from.

“Tomorrow,” he mumbled. “Tomorrow I will travel to Northumbria to consult with King Aelle.” His mother’s father, King Aelle was most likely the next target of the vikings, being responsible for the death of the Ragnar Lothbrok. That was why his sons were here, wasn’t it? Revenge.

They had killed his grandfather for calling upon Ragnar’s execution. His father for fighting back when the sons of Ragnar had come to seek revenge. And now, they will kill King Aelle, Alfred does not doubt it.

And Alfred wonders when his turn will come. 

After all,  _ death begets death begets death begets de– _

≈

“It is time,” Alfred tells his mother, bidding her farewell and it may well be the last time. He is afraid. Not afraid of his life, but for Wessex. But he trusts his mother. He knows she will do what he asks and make sure everything goes according to plan.

And as he rides on his horse, he can’t help but clutch his cross, heart thundering. Two soldiers ride beside him, trotting off a couple metres ahead of him, although it was more likely he’d be ambushed from behind.

His horse is a small one. He chose it himself. Wishing not to provide the pagans with any more calvary but also because the dopple gray reminded him of himself. Small.  _ Weak. _

The skies outside thunder, rain pouring, dumping needles down onto the earth below, and his cape does little to keep him dry. Even the lord was crying for his tragedy and he wonders if that were supposed to make him happier.

The clouds cry and scream, echoing the pained cries of Wessex. His kingdom cries, and Alfred wants nothing more than to keep her happy. To keep her growing and blooming with grain. To spread peace and spare her lands from being watered by the blood of both kinds.

He wonders if the pagans would be kind to him, like they were to Athelstan. He supposed not. Not after the raids. If he was lucky, they’d only take a few fingers..maybe an ear. But of course, even that could prove deadly.

The journey to the camp feels oddly small. Like him. Too quick, his thoughts lost once again, washed away with the rain, and he feels cold. The warmth of Mary long gone.

Tents upon tents lay set out before him. Weapons and shields spread out lined outside the tents. A large tent is placed on top of a hill, no doubt the leaders. A barricade of wooden spikes surrounds the camp, and it is as though he is walking towards his death altogether. His heart mimics the storm above, fingers trembling on the horse’s reign. The cloak now wet, and damp, soaking through every layer of fabric.

It isn’t until an arrow whistles past his cheek does he jump, awakened from his thoughts. Alfred falters the slightest, tempted to take a step back, but his trusted soldiers are ahead of him in seconds. They push him back ready to draw their swords. 

“No,” he orders. “I am here to negotiate peace, not threaten them for it.”

He finds his way off his horse, patting her softly as a gesture of thanks. “Wait here,” Alfred says, taking another deep breath to calm his nerves.

“But my lord. We are supposed to be traveling to King Aelle.” the one on the left tries. They are both his trusted guards. Ones he knows would rather die than betray him. “Please...you do not know this plan will work.”

“I am King now, Elwood. It is now my responsibility to take the risk for my people. Besides, if anything is to happen, I am sure my brother will be fit to take my place. For now,” he smiles. “You will travel to York and deliver my message to King Aelle. Speak no word of my presence here to anyone. Only my mother. Tell her I’ve arrived at the enemies fortress safely.”

“My lord, the others...they will wonder where you are”

“Let them know I am ill and unable to travel.”

“But–”

_ “I will not ask twice.” _

And with that Alfred continues making his way towards the entrance, pulling the cloak off his head and he ignores the second arrow that shrugs past him, farther away than the last time. He knows it’s a bluff. Had the Pagans wished to kill him, they would not have missed the first time. 

“I wish to talk to your leaders.” he speaks, but his voice is lost in the rain. 

Another arrow and he repeats himself. “I wish to speak with your leaders!” Louder yet again, and this time his voice reaches the pagan guards. 

The man yells something Alfred cannot comprehend, and it dawns upon him these people do not know what he is saying. He pauses, stopping at his steps. The muddy soil sinking his heavy boots into the ground. 

“Ivar,” Alfred says, suddenly, remembering one of Ragnar’s sons. The same one he’d defeated long ago on a wooden board. “I wish to talk to Ivar!  _ IVAR RAGNARRSON! _ ”

There is a hint of recognition in the man's face, and it isn't long before a young man comes limping out. There are metal braces covering both legs, and his hair pulled back in a series of integrite braids.

There is a hint of animosity from the pagan. Dangerous without doubt. This man is powerful. Alfred would be a fool to not see that. The blue in his eyes as blue as Mary, but filled with a wrath he had never seen before. Violent.  _ Ruthless. _

Alfred wonders if it is wrong of him to be amazed. To be jealous. He wants to be strong, strong as the man before him, but not nearly as cruel. It’s an odd thing. Alfred has what this man could only dream to achieve, but he lacks the strength the other has. It’s...cruel. To give him a gift, but take away the other half. A cruel game played by the fates.

And here at dusk, in the eye of the storm, death comes to him in the form of a man. 

_ Ivar.  _

  
  



	2. Worth

Ivar was, in all sense,  _ terrifying _ . A monster hidden in the body of a sheep. If Alfred runs now, he has no doubt the man would catch up to him in mere seconds. How? He does not know.

“And who has your cowardly King sent this time? Another pathetic soldier to do his bidding?” it spoke, and Alfred swallowed, his body finding itself able to breathe once again.

“His brother,” he lies. Ivar did not know he was the new King and Alfred was not a fool to let go of that opportunity. 

The grin on the demon’s face faltered the slightest. Maybe he’d been hoping to kill Alfred on the spot. Tie his head to the horse and send it back to his mother, but it seemed those plans changed with the knowledge of Alfred’s worth. That’s what mattered.

_ His worth. _

And a part of Alfred wants to laugh at the irony of it all. His worth, one that his own people deemed not enough, his enemy seemed to have scavenged out from somewhere in his weak and sickly body.

“Now...why would your King send his own brother _ ?” _ Ivar hummed, frowning mockingly. “Did mommy not love you enough?”

“I have come to negotiate peace.” Alfred spoke, the words spilling from his mouth as calculated as how he had practiced.

“And what makes you think we want peace?”

“Nothing.” That was not part of the script. Now would be a good time to close his mouth, but it seemed the pagan was intrigued, and Alfred finds himself continuing. “You’re cruel, merciless, a tyrant. You have no wish for peace. You want war, a battle.  _ An equal. _ ”

The pagan doesn’t reply and Alfred figures he may have stepped out of bounds. None the matter, he supposed. It doesn’t ruin the validity of his plan. It worked either way, despite the risk. 

“That is why you haven’t attacked us yet, is it not? You don’t want the sweet surrender of victory. You want revenge. Blood for blood.”

“And how would you know, little Prince?”

“Your father,” he says, truthfully. Despite his plans, he hoped there was hope for a better option. Peace. Truce. And no peace started with lies. 

“My father is dead.”

“And it was  _ my _ grandfather who killed him.” The clouds above thunder, as though to warn Alfred of the fragile thread he was treading upon. He pays no heed to them. “I know. I met him.”

“Now now, Christian,” Ivar clicks his tongue, walking closer, the crutch digging into the soft ground, “lying isn’t a good start to a peace, now is it?”

“Precisely why I am  _ not _ lying.”

Alfred finds it hard to breathe. His stomach burns and aches with an indescribable pain. Cramps pulsing up his gut, digging deep into the pit of his stomach, and he wobbles just the slightest. All the while, Ivar stands merely inches before him, body tall and unwavering. 

In the palm of his left hand, the demon holds a blade. Broken and rusted with the blood it has spilled. It feels sharp against Alfred’s neck, and though he feels the need to pull away, he knows it won’t make a difference. He’d be dead the moment he backs up.

“I could kill you right now. Slit your pretty throat, tear your lungs out and send them back to for your King to see. Maybe I’ll send you in little pieces. A puzzle for your King to put back together.” His voice sounds like that of Eve’s serpent. Hissing and lulling Alfred away from the light of his lord and saviour.

“I am grateful for the reminder, but I believe I was well aware of that when I chose to walk here without a horse or the comfort of any weapon, and my soldiers over a hundred meters away from your camp.”

“I  _ should _ kill you right here, right now. See if your god comes to save you.”

“But you can’t afford to. My life is worth too much.” Alfred smiles. It’s strange. His life is worth here, but not back amongst his own court. “Your men are dying. Starved and assassinated under the cover of the night. You nee–”

“You think you are in any position to threaten me,” Ivar hisses.

“Tell me, how many petty villages and towns do you plan to raid before you finally run out of food, and men. Why fight a baseless war, when we can grant you land here. Welcome your kind in and allow you to create a settlement of your own, without the need for mindless violence.”

“You said it yourself, little prince. I want war.”

“You want revenge.”

Ivar curls his lips downwards, eyes rolling up sarcastically. “Same thing.”

Alfred shakes his head. “I do not understand. The killer of your father is dead, is your thirst for revenge not quenched?”

Ivar smiles, and it does little to assure Alfred. “But his blood still lives. And as long as that blood pulses through your veins, he’ll never truly be dead, now would he?”

It clicks then. The pagans did not know Alfred was the son of a bastard. That his blood was not pure, but tainted with the sins of his blood-father. He could choose to tell the ravan that his grandfather’s bloodline had died long ago, instead, he steps forward.

Pushes his neck against the blade, all the while peering deep into the blue, daring it to slice the blade across his neck. To spill the blood, his enemy deemed to be his father’s murder. It did not matter if it would be a lie. Maybe it would bring peace...an end to all the fighting. 

“Go ahead then,” he whispers, “Take your revenge and  _ leave.” _

There is a tingling against the skin of his neck, the blood warm against his skin. But the warmth was short-lived. The tears of his lord washing it down to the ground, back to where they all must eventually return to.

A trace of a grin spreads across his enemy’s face. The blue in his eyes glinting with amusement, as though it has found something worth watching. Something he wanted to take his time breaking one by one and then rebuilding it only to break it again.

“Do you have no value for your life, christian? Is this not supposed to be a taboo in your little book?” Ivar mocks, hand steady and unmoving. The blade still held up to his throat. 

“Only so much and how would you know? Have you read it?”

The blade moves away from his neck, and Alfred sucks in a breath. He had been trying to act all brave and confident, but in reality he was terrified. Of course he wouldn’t think of taking his own life. He would not make the same mistakes his grandfather did. 

“No, but my father did keep a pet monk once. Prayed all day and night that fool, and what did his god give him in return? Death. Aethelstin, I believe his name was.”

“He was no  _ pet _ , he was your father’s _ friend _ ,” Alfred spat. “And his  _ name _ was Athlestan.”

Ivar laughed at that, leaning on his crutch slightly as though he had heard the most outrageous story of all. The rain still poured, and the pagan’s men had returned back to their tents. Only the cold of the storm left to encourage the other’s laughter.

“You do not believe me!”

“You are funny _ . _ Athlestan was my father's greatest strategy. Often overlooked, but the monk was nothing more than a tool,” Ivar huffed out, small chuckles escaping every now and then.

But Alfred supposed it was his time to laugh, but he kept his pride down. The other did not know anything. Only seemed to look at the calculations and strategies behind every move. Every word. It was, in a sense,  _ sad. _

“I suppose you don’t know as much as you preach. Your father spent more time in _ my _ land than he did at yours. And as your pagans have a...desire to drink. Your father spilled more than enough secrets, ones I doubt you have ever heard.” He speaks as though he has the upper hand here, although Alfred knows he doesn’t. It’s a bluff, nothing more. Merely horse play.

“Must I remind you again, lying isn’t a very good start to peace.”

“And I am  _ not _ lying! Ask _ Floki, _ ” Alfred eventually let out. He doesn’t want to let out all his knowledge, but he needs Ivar to know he is not a harmless fly, but a hawk. Small, but deadly.

The smile drops, and Ivar snarls. “How do you know who Floki is?”

“Your  _ father _ spoke of him.”

There is a moment of silence, although nothing is silent. The gods roar up above, and his heart beats louder than the rain splattering against his ears. 

“I knew the sons of Ragnar would come back to avenge their father, but he has already been avenged. So why? What is your true motive for being here?”

The pagan smile, his lips curving up like the devil himself. He can see the seven devils all around this man, tainting his heart, corrupting it with the thirst for power.

“I want to finish what my father started. I will conquer all of England.” It is not a threat, nor a warning, but an oath. 

“A small victory does not make you a conqueror.” Alfred knows he’s treading on fragile thread. He knows he’s standing before an untamed serpent, ready to strike the moment Alfred slips up.

“No, but this is only the beginning of my reign.”

“The spirit of greed can only destroy, never build. And I’m afraid your reign will end here. Wessex defeated you once on a wooden board, and she will defeat you again.” He moves his arms up, letting his hood slumps off from his head, as he basked in the tears of his kingdom. “And I’ll let both your gods and mine be the witness to your demise.”

And at this moment, standing in between the jaws of the beast, Alfred feels powerful. His stomach churns, whether it be with pain or confidence, he does not know. And whether he is a fool or a genius to be threatening his enemy, he does not care. 

The rain dulls down into the silent buzz of the background, his heartbeat slowing to deafening thuds. 

_ Ba-dump. _

And his legs, although stronger than the cripple, felt weak. They wobbled, trembled, threatened to bulk up against his weight, and collapsed to the ground.

_ Ba-dump. Ba-dump. _

And he breathes. Faster and  _ faster, _ as he makes out the gleam of the blade coming up to end him once and for all, but it never hits his mark. He stumbles back trying to regain his footing, but it's a harder feit than he thought.

He can see Ivar mouthing something, he can’t quite comprehend, probably something along the lines of how he’s going to kill Alfred, but Alfred doesn’t think he needs help in that matter. Killing Alfred is as easy as killing a fly. It’s breaking him that is difficult. Impossible even. 

And he smiles softly, his lips straining to curve up as he sways back and forth, the pain in his stomach no longer comprehensible. He can’t tell where it started or ended, only knows it’s taking over, little by little, and a part of him wanted to cry like he’s done a hundred times before under the covers of his bedroom door, waiting for the pain to pass. 

And like always, it leaves him, only to return another day.

_ Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Badump. _

And he’s tipping forward, the ground growing closer and closer by the second. He cocks his head up to look at the beast one last time, not willing to go down with his eyes on the ground. He knows humility. Has been at the lowest, but from down here, he can see the true faces of demons that surround him.

“That’s where you are wrong, the little prince. It wasn’t  _ Wessex _ that defeated me, it was you. A mere sheep, who needs a lesson where he belongs.” The words are mocking, cold, and ruthless as his body hits the ground, the dirt oddly warm and soft under his touch.

He doesn’t find humility in these words, nor as his face dug deep into the wet soil does he feel weak. Ivar may hold an axe over his head, but Alfred is holding a bigger one over both of them. And if the beast chooses to swing his weapon, at the very least Alfred will take it down with him. 

_ Ba-dump. Ba-dump. _

His vision blurs, eyes heavy and tired. He’s not afraid. The cross clutched tight and firm in his right palm as he finally closes his eyes.  The serpent's words repeat through his mind, and he can’t help but smile as he embraces the abyss, falling asleep into a world of fabricated bliss.

And as the dark took over, the unspoken words echoed through his head. _ ‘Oh but Ivar, I am Wessex.’ _

  
  


** _Ba-dump._ **

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! This one was basically more dialogue. More character will be introduced in the next chapter. It may seem a little out of character, but like...Alfred just became king, so he's still a little nervous. 
> 
> Welp, hope you guys enjoy this chapter! I'll upload the next one after two weeks.

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, this is my first time writing a Vikings fanfic, so it's not the greatest. Either way, hope you guys enjoyed the chapter. If there is any confusion or questions, feel free to ask below.
> 
> Any suggestions for the plot or criticism? Please let me know!
> 
> Anyways...enjoy! Hope you all like it.


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